Koi Killer
by sparticletam
Summary: An enemy from Don’s past emerges to torment him and the demise of the koi is his calling card. Charlie is snatched up for the ride.
1. Chapter 1

**Koi Killer**

Chapter One: _Outlaw_

---1---

Don slammed the door closed and walked out, newspaper under his arm, assigning tasks to his staff, delegating before he got there. The sun hid behind the hills and a haze was trapped in the basin, casting a pallor upon the ragged metropolis. He reached into a pocket for keys, switching the paper to the other arm, and unlocked his sedan, ten feet out. Upon opening the door a stench overwhelmed him and he gagged, stepped back.

The paper slipped to the asphalt and he took a quick look around the area, then reapproached the car, hand under his nose. He peeked in. The odor permeated the interior, smelled like a wharf. He saw nothing which would explain it. In the back seat lay two boxes and a jacket for the trek he and Charlie had been planning. He steeled himself and from the front seat, stretched back and pulled up the jacket. Underneath was a dead fish-a sizable dead fish-an orange-dappled koi.

He hurried out, feeling vulnerable, tempted to draw his sidearm. But no one was about, vehicles pleasantly parked in the street, birds fluttering under a maple. He shut the car door and took out his cell phone, watching for anything out of the ordinary, his back to the buildings. All was not right with the world. Outlaws prowled, ones adept enough to get into his car without being noticed or leaving a mark.

No one answered the first four rings so he disconnected, tried again. He grew impatient. The answering machine activated and he hung up, tried Charlie's cell phone. Only voice mail. Then his father's, with the same result. He retried the landline and finally got Charlie, who sounded sleepy. Pop's in the shower, he said, the old furnace is acting up.

Don got to the point. "Charlie, shake off the webs and check the pond. Someone broke into my car and dumped a fish."

"A fish?"

"A koi, like yours," Don said. "Check now."

"All right, I'm walking."

"Waiting"

"I didn't hear anything last night." Charlie seemed skeptical.

"Doesn't mean nothing happened."

"Where are you?" he said.

"Never mind." As he spoke, Don revolved 360 degrees, ruling out a matronly woman and her dog as suspects. "What do you see?"

"Give me a second."

"You outside?"

Charlie didn't answer.

"What's the matter?"

"Don. They're dead, all of them."

"Go back inside," Don said. "As a precaution."

"But--"

"Go back in and lock the doors, call the police. Both of you stay inside until they get there." No response. "Hello?"

"They're floating on top."

"Now, Charlie."

"The water's cloudy."

"Inside," Don said. "Make sure the front's locked. Dad leaves it open sometimes when he gets the paper."

"Going, I'm going. Who would do this?"

"I don't know. I gotta' call this in but I'll be there as soon as I can."

"I'm inside," Charlie said. "Be careful."

---2---

Because Don was an FBI agent, the city police regarded the vehicle break-in as a bold harassment carried out by a suspect who could require priority status. Together, they gathered up the fish as evidence, putting it on ice for the lab. When they were done, Don lowered the car windows, cranked up the A/C and drove straight to Charlie's, keeping an eye out in the rear view mirror the entire commute. At the house, he intercepted the responding police unit as it backed out of the driveway and spoke with the officers briefly before going in.

Charlie was in the backyard, kneeling by the pond with a net, bucket at his side. Alan stood next to him.

"I talked to the cops," Don said, coming up the path. "It's got to be someone who has it personal for me."

Alan flinched. "You startled me."

"Sorry." Don eyed the pond, fish adrift like flotsam. "This is insane."

"What if it's not personal?" Alan said. "Maybe he's got a bone to pick with all of us."

"Can't rule that out." Don looked down over Charlie's shoulder. He was raising a koi out of the water. "How's it going?"

Charlie laid it out on the bottom of the bucket then gazed up at Don. "What do I do with them?"

"We'll need a couple to analyze, find out what killed them." He surveyed the area, shaking his head.

"And the rest?" he asked.

Don watched Charlie go lax and drop back on a heel, nudging a red and white patterned koi with the net, sweeping it back and forth as if it would spring to life.

"I suppose they're too big for the toilet," Don said, instantly realizing he'd hurled himself into a chasm of trouble. It was way too early for stress-defusing, law enforcement levity.

Charlie got up, threw the net down and faced him. "Why don't you clean this up? Take them home in your car," he said, and marched towards the house.

Alan tried to intervene, picking up the net. "Gentlemen, let's work together, shall we?"

"I'll be back, dad." Don caught up with him at the rear door. "I apologize. I'm way out of line. It's been a really bad morning. I'm supposed to be at a meeting, my car stinks..." He loosened his tie. "We'll bury them, like the lizard. Remember?"

Charlie's somber face was outlined in the door glass. He sighed.

"A decent funeral," Don said.

"We're not kids."

"Go on in." Don opened the door. "Dad and I can take care of everything."

Charlie shut it. "I want them to have a dignified disposal."

Don removed his jacket, heading for the storage. "I'll get a shovel."

---3---

In a corner of the garden, Don and Charlie prepared a squared grave. When finished, a perspiring Charlie returned to the pond and lifted out the remainder of his pets. As the bucket filled with two or three of the large koi, Alan would transfer and deposit their limp bodies into their final resting-place. Once complete, an anxious Alan escaped inside for a cool drink.

Still in a tie, Don began to push the soil back in.

Charlie lingered at the edge. "Let me do it."

"Grab the other shovel."

"I'll do it," he said.

Don hesitated, then handed his shovel over. "Sure?"

Charlie nodded, already on task.

"I'll be inside," he said. At the door, he looked back. Charlie seemed resigned to his duty, methodically scooping in soil. He thrived on numbers and algorithms, but the koi had summoned him to a world where symbols were immaterial, where the koi themselves were symbolic. The koi were smart and when Charlie came to feed them-carefully measuring out what they could eat in ten minutes-they became active, sloshing the water. Strangers did not elicit this reaction.

On balmy nights, Charlie would focus on the pond, motionless, and Don knew it was then his brother's fast-forward brain would be tranquil for at least ten minutes, especially when he was unable or unwilling to prevent his thoughts from controlling him. The koi were a respite. Don recognized the need.

With a fist, he thumped the doorjamb, sorting suspects past and present through his mind. "Creep," he said. "I'm not letting you harass my family. Or me."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: _Fundamental Unity_

---1---

Don broke the news to Charlie over the phone: Lab results confirmed weed killer had poisoned the koi, including the fish in the car. It was disturbing, because the perpetrator would have had to poison the koi under cover of night, wait for one to die or almost die, then steal it from the property while Alan and Charlie were sleeping upstairs.

Over the week, the investigation uncovered zilch in leads. No witnesses, no revealing evidence other than that the weed killer was a common brand sold in most garden shops in the city.

Don also learned from Alan that he'd suggested to Charlie that the koi be replaced as soon as the pond was scrubbed free of poisonous residue, that he would feel better for it. Charlie flat out said no, he didn't want anymore fish, and refused to discuss the matter further.

It's my final decision, Charlie later told his brother, I'm busy with work. Don dropped the subject.

They all needed a break. Prior to the incident, Don had been scheduled to testify on a case which had occurred on federal land. After court, Don had planned to meet Charlie for a hike to a cabin belonging to a professor who'd kindly let them borrow it. Don thought about canceling the excursion, worried about leaving their father alone after such strange happenings. His mind was relieved when he found out Alan was participating in a senior citizen's golf tournament, not by chance. Dad needed to get away, too.

Don's testimony went well and as he expected, he was released from having to stick around on call. The days were his to seize-and Charlie's too. He'd been dropped off at noon and was patiently waiting in Don's hotel room, engrossed in his notebook. Don was pleased he had not let his loss keep him from coming.

Before leaving, Don changed clothes and they had lunch in the hotel restaurant whereupon Charlie related how he'd passed the time by strolling through a nearby mall until he got bored, which took about ten minutes. Back in the room, a man had come to the door wearing a shirt reading, "_Don't_ _tell_..." on the front.

I had to look up to him, Charlie said.

"What'd he want?"

"He was asking for Mr. Mapleson. The unique ingredient is, he had a book in his arms. _Nishikigoi_ _Nomad_."

"So?"

"Do you know what Nishikigoi means? It's Japanese for koi."

Don's eyebrows lifted; his heart drew an upbeat. "See him here?"

Charlie scanned the restaurant. "No, it's been hours. The back of his shirt--"

"He could be our man." Don pushed the plate away, got up and produced his cell phone. "Describe him."

"What're you doing?"

"What do you think I'm doing? He could still be in the vicinity."

Charlie rose and gently stuck a palm between Don's ear and the phone. Customers turned their way. "Don," he said. "It's a coincidence, that's all."

Pulling away, Don brought up a number that promised action. "I'm not taking chances. What'd he look like?"

"People often--usually--underestimate the frequency of coincidences. What if you're wrong?"

Don walked into the lobby, expecting a real person to pick up on the line. "Doesn't matter. We're used to long-shots."

Charlie insisted. "Come on, we're on vacation."

No one answered and Don gave up. "What are the odds of someone having a koi book?"

"There're over 50,000 koi owners in the United States, forty percent in our state alone. People that own them are the same people who would be tourists in this area, like you and me. And it wasn't necessarily a koi book. Nishigoiki can be translated as carp, sort of...colorful carp. It's a coincidence."

"Koi are carp."

"It had a cover, like a novel, and, obviously..." He measured with his fingers. "Thick. A tome."

"_Koi Nomad_? Never heard of it." Don put away the phone. "Charlie, he came to my room."

"Am I standing here talking to you?" he asked.

"Like usual. Except you need to pay up. Waiter's giving us the evil eye."

---2---

After driving up, they endured a swirling road ride up the mountainside in a shuttle bus (no cars were allowed beyond the ski resort's parking lot), and disembarked at the ninth stop, unloaded their things. Three other travelers had gotten off at the third stop. Outside, Don tucked his sidearm into a compartment of the pack and they started up Mean Marmot Trail toward the cabin. If the trail wasn't too taxing, they could comfortably reach their destination tomorrow.

At a stream, they stopped to rest, lowly brook trout flitting in and out amongst the smooth rocks. Its gentle current lapped at Charlie's boot-toes and a breeze picked up, then died again. Under a tree, Don pulled off his pack and let it slide to the ground, then himself. They had discovered a beautiful natural arbor, and as in every waterside grove, sounds were amplified, crisply carried into the atmosphere. Across the stream, a four-foot high embankment ran the length of the stream into the forest, dotted with vegetation in packed and loosened soil. Charlie had crouched down, tickling the bubbling surface with his hand, then splashing his face and forehead. Don drank bottled water, asked him if he was interested in fishing.

Charlie bid farewell to the trout and joined him. "Not directly," he said, and proceeded to comment on the annual impact, by way of stats, of hydrology on native habitats. In a minute or two, he lost steam and leaned against the tree, closed his eyes. "This is infinite."

"I'm with that," Don said, finishing his drink. Dragging his pack nearer, he unfastened the main flap and dug around for a snack. Charlie's head drooped; he was dozing off. It was nice he was able to get quiet, in the quiet. No matter how long Don lived, portions of Charlie's mind would always remain an enigma and other portions he would always be able to see right through without thinking about it. Sometimes it felt as if they were telepathically linked, others like they were strangers who'd just met, each speaking a different language.

The water gurgled and Don relaxed, shut his eyes, focused on its chaotic rhythm. There was nothing like this in the city unless you paid for it, drove to it, or set it up yourself. At home, he'd grown so accustomed to the roar of freeways day and night that he didn't notice them any longer. Now, with the roar many miles away, he noted its absence. Curious how that worked.

But he didn't miss it. Not one bit.

His eyes popped open. A noise made him scan toward the north embankment where pebbles spilled off the top. They tumbled down, puddled at the bottom. Don thought he saw a blue smudge behind the boughs. The light, must be the light, reflecting off the water.

"What is it?" Charlie sat forward, rubbed his face.

"Nothing, maybe deer. I've been working way too hard, my friend. Good to go?"

Charlie said, "I'm always good to go."

---3---

They spent the first night at the perimeter of a clearing where the sky was magnificently crystalline, stuffed with stars. Charlie offered his knowledge, saying because it had taken their light so long to travel to earth, some of the stars no longer existed. We're seeing into the past, he said.

"I know that, from somewhere," Don said. "Maybe Larry. Time traveling." He lay in his sleeping bag, half out of their tent. The last thing he noted before falling asleep was Charlie fooling with the GPS software on his PDA (as if they didn't know where they were already), and informing him that there was a twenty percent chance the tail-end of a northwestern summer storm would befall them by afternoon.

The moon unmasked at midnight, hours after they'd fallen asleep.

In the morning, Don razed the fogginess out of his brain and reached for his boots at the entrance to the tent. They weren't there, but sitting two feet away.

"You must've moved them," Charlie said. "And don't remember."

"I wasn't that beat." Don swept the perimeter, concentrating on trees and shrubs on the other side. Everything appeared peaceful. He was trained to pick up on subtleties yet he wondered if he should connect the dots strictly by the numbers, instead of by the way things looked.

Near noon, after tackling a steep, unrelenting acclivity on the trail, which roughly paralleled the river, they were glad to catch sight of the elevated cabin, built on a three foot foundation, and gratefully headed towards it. In case of fire, the area around it had been cleared about thirty feet by the owners. It wasn't much: three rooms with bare cots, table and chairs in a front area with pairs of windows at the rear and front and a view of an ancient water pump. No bath facilities, a sad stock of leftover canned goods and a portable barbecue grill, unused for ages.

"Now what?" Charlie said, after settling in. He had a book in his hands.

"I knew you'd be lost without the PC," Don said. They sat on the front deck, relishing the sunset. Their dinner had been ready-to-eat meals, which weren't bad, convenient. "You aren't joking with me, Charlie?"

"I didn't touch your boots."

Don rested an elbow on the stair. "Because if you did, there will be consequences."

"Personally," Charlie said, opening the book. "I wouldn't proceed without proof."

Examining the cover, Don read it aloud: "_A Fundamental Unity of Mathematics, Volume Two_. Why am I tempted to add, '_And You_' ?"

"Professor Mindus is appraising it."

"It's your lumbar." He yawned, head tipped back until he was staring up into a clump of dried pine needles at the top of a fir tree. "What color was his shirt?"

Charlie set the book behind him. "Whose shirt?"

"The guy who asked for the Mapletons."

"Mapleson. It was, ah...beige."

"Any other colors?"

Charlie seemed to be picturing the man. "In the center, around the words, there was a blue circle."

"Shade?" Don said.

"You're still not maintaining he's our suspect?"

A flurry of gnats zipped about the fir, backlit in sunset. "Fly with me on this," he said.

"Shade. A prominent blue, sapphire."

Don nodded, pondering the match. Had his imagination been playing tricks?

"Thought about who it was?" Charlie said.

"I've arrested lots over the years. Some are in prison, some are out, some are dead. It's a pretty hefty list."

"Any jump out at you?"

"Yeah. Man named James Wingfield, just got out." Don swatted a bug off the bridge of his nose. "But when we get home, I'm searching the database for tall guys."

Charlie had gotten up and was sorting through the book. "They're isolated incidents. There's no manifestation of a pattern." He paced the length of the cabin. "Maybe he's on to something new."

Don changed the subject; he didn't want to make Charlie nervous. "Why not get more koi?" he said. "I saw you admiring those trout down there."

"Do we have to talk about it?"

"No-if you have a problem with it."

"You and dad want fish..." Charlie clapped the book shut. "Then you and dad get fish. I have better things to do than worry about pH balance."

"You didn't mind before," Don said.

"I do now."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: _Time Traveler_

---1---

They hit the sack early, each taking a room. Don shut the door, content and a little guilty for preferring his own space at day's end. When you lived alone, you got used to enjoying your own timetable and not talking if you didn't feel like it, and nobody took it personally. Some said that freedom came at a high cost but Don figured not everyone was on the same life schedule. He did think about it, about settling down, soon.

He'd called their father. It took three tries to get the signal through before leaving a message. Dad's probably having a great time, would've enjoyed this region. The hike might be difficult for him, but they could take it slower, increase the amount of reststops.

Don took off his boots and surrendered to the cot, lying on his sleeping bag, and rolled towards the window away from the door. The cots had been placed lengthwise along the wall. Crickets mused outdoors, taking turns, layering their shrill music over one another, competing. He sat up to peer out, cot squeaking, followed by a similar squeak from Charlie's room as he turned in his sleep. He could hear it every time. The meager springs were stiff, determined to toss Don off with every change of position.

Sometime after moonrise, he awoke to another cot-squeak from the next room. It was louder and he figured Charlie must have opened his window to allow in fresh air and the squeak was now straying in clearly. He relaxed, quickly into dreams.

Hours later, a strange roar roused him a second time, accompanied by a malicious glow, flickering on the walls. He turned over, saw flames and backed away, dropping to the floor. Charlie, he thought, and began to yell-get up get out. Outside, the fire crowded his window, the exterior shutters and sill set ablaze with a sudden whoosh. Smoke flowed in freely, thickening overhead. Once inside the fire refueled, snaking up the window frame to the ceiling, igniting sap in the wood like popcorn.

He pressed his shirt over nose and mouth and crawled to the door, touched it. Heat penetrated the boards but he had no choice and cracked it open, found the front room cloaked with fire. He dashed out on his feet, bent low, darting past a ring of flames which had engulfed the dining table and their packs, grazing across the roof. Charlie's door was closed and he didn't think to feel for its hotness and rushed in. An inferno waylaid him and he was driven back to the doorway, diving to the floor. Through the fire, he made out the cot, overturned on its side and facing the window, engulfed.

"Charlie!" he shouted, the oppressive heat bearing down on his back. Had he escaped? The fire progressed; smoke billowed across the ceiling, spreading to the exit. Charlie's door was consumed. His eyes stung and he battled to keep them open, finding his way on all fours to the front window on the right. He felt for the frame, missed then raised it, and poured out on to the deck, gasping for air.

_Charlie's not here_. He didn't give up and fell forward, then stood, tumbling down the deck stairs. He lugged himself up, staggering round to the rear of the cabin to Charlie's window. It was over six feet tall and he could touch the bottom edge but not see in. He defied the smoke and flames, clutched the frame and jumped, hit it at his chest. Crying out, he crashed to the ground, sleeve on fire. In the damp sod, he twisted round to extinguish it and ripped off the burned overshirt.

Screaming for Charlie, he sprung up and tried again. This time, there was no sill to take hold of-it was impossible to hang on to flames. He tore his cell phone from his jeans, dialed 9-1-1, hands trembling, uncooperative. He couldn't see. It's ringing.

Answering, he heard himself plead, repeating the same information, reciting their names and location, voice unintelligible, even to his own ears. My brother's in there, get help, please...

His legs buckled, the cabin disintegrating a few feet away. He wouldn't back away, wouldn't leave._ I'll_ _take care of you, Charlie._ The fire cackled, leapt out into the night. He disconnected the caller and rose, faltered to the front, trying 9-1-1. An incoming call interfered but his fingers were numb, clumsy; he couldn't cancel it fast enough before another one followed. His mind overpowered him; he didn't know the number on the screen. Get out of my way...

The roof imploded, a din like a blast. He cried out, the plea swelling into the forest, and coughed uncontrollably. Losing his breath, he collapsed. The phone slipped to the grass, ringing.

He came to face down, bathed in the barest first light. Pain, everywhere. Dread, as if he'd also perished. It entombed him, denied release. He lifted his head, cradled burnt hands, tasted soot on his lips. His lungs felt constricted and he inhaled, wheezing.

The cabin was blackened, an orange-smoldering shell, curls of smoke streaming toward the clouds. The forest, draped in shadows, imposed on him like prison walls. It had lost its beauty. Fire in three spots, inconceivable. Don wanted to condemn the stars for being there when Charlie wasn't. If he could time-travel now, he'd return to the night before.

_You are going to walk out of the woods aren't you, Charlie?_

Damned phone is ringing. Late, too late. He stretched to gather it up and dropped it, scraped it nearer with his forearm and picked it up, couldn't speak.

The man on the line was impassive. "It's a fluke he was your brother, Eppes," he said. "He should've been mine."

Don lay inert, said nothing.

"Can you keep a secret?" the man said. "Well?"

"Get help." Don's voice cracked, weak, raspy. "There's been a fire."

"Here's my secret, Donny-by the way, your dad still calls you Donny, doesn't he?-I didn't actually need to squeeze Charlie, just you. But now that it's done."

"No one's come," he said. "Please, call 9-1-1."

"Shake off the webs, Eppes, and listen to a ghost."

_Shake off the webs._ He'd said it to Charlie the day of the koi. "Who the hell are you?"

"Your hiking pal," he said. "Your brother made my job simple. Limits the improvisation."

Don studied the woods, the cabin. The combined silhouettes of plants and trees hinted at human shapes. The light was too faint to see well.

"Once a special agent, always an agent, eh, Eppes? Too bad they can't erase our training when they kick us out on our asses."

"Tell me who you are." Don sat up, scoured his memories-career criminals, murderous suspects, relatives of those he'd brought to justice. His singed arm throbbed and he held it, couldn't concentrate.

"Guess. You know I love a good game, like you with baseball. Especially when I win."

Don needed cover. He stole over to the burned-up deck, remaining close to the ground. This madman had been in proximity, spying, or how could he have known he'd salvaged his phone and survived?

"What do you want?" Don said.

The man taunted him. "Intend to check for Charlie's body?"

He heaved forward, arm over his stomach. "I'm hanging up."

"I wouldn't."

"You're out of your mind. You got a gripe with me, show yourself."

"Guess first."

"Fuck, I don't know. I can't think, this isn't..." Don looked to where he'd last seen Charlie. Was he there? Overcome by smoke before saying a word?

"Need a hint?" said the man.

Don's eyes overflowed, odd relief to his sight. There was no road back, and his will withered. "I can't handle this," he said. "I can't do it. Leave me alone."

"Jeez, Eppes, you'd think you'd been working as a preschool teacher or something."

The phone plopped to the ground and he bowed his head, spent breaths stirring the topsoil. He felt as though he would suffocate.

"I'll take this."

Don heard the voice, did not look up. Powerful fists snatched the front of his shirt and he was shoved against the charred step, the barrel of a .38 thrust into his cheekbone. He tried to focus, the dawn increasing gradually.

"I expected this from you. Think you're brave?-so did they." The man tugged the shirt, shook him. "Stop it! I can't stand it."

Don felt warmth on his spine and the wood disintegrated beneath him. He recognized the man, the hazel and blue speckled irises. He spoke the name, inaudible. On the second try, the name was acknowledged. "Reylott."

Releasing him, Reylott towered upright, six foot three, bearing a backpack. He wound up a pitch and Don's phone sailed into the treetops. "Get up," he ordered. "You and I are scheduled for a conference. An overdue rendezvous. Not here, someone might show up."

Don swiped the back of a hand over his brows. The flesh around them was tender. "Why?" he said, leaning in.

"Just get up."

"I want to know."

Reylott bristled and seized him, stuck the gun under his chin. "If you don't know, then that's the reason. Get up!" He hauled him to his feet.

Don winced. Reylott's grip was cinched around his bad arm. He was dragged forward, lost balance and folded to the earth. "I'm not going anywhere."

Reylott kicked him in the thigh, said he'd shoot.

"Kill me now," Don said. "I'd rather be with Charlie."

"It'll kill your dad, too, to lose both his sons. That what you want? Alan's in San Diego today, isn't he?"

He turned to his side. "You bugged their house."

"Took me awhile to get around to it but like I said, we have a rendezvous." Reylott went to the corner of the cabin. The foundation was intact, the center of the roof destroyed, other sections threatening to sink. "Why don't you check?" he said, motioning with the gun.

"What?"

"Quit bawling and check," he said. "How do you know Charlie wasn't taking a leak and got lost?"

Don swallowed, throat sore and blocked by the burden. Easing up, he walked past Reylott to the rear. His captor followed. The outer wall of Charlie's room had burned through, two-thirds of the roof gone, planks hanging by scorched nails. He teetered at the foundation and peered in. The debris were too hot to touch. Cot springs protruded from the fallen logs, carbon rubble. He didn't want to find anything, but he had to know.

"Any evidence?" Reylott said. "Crispy feet?"

He fought to hold his anger, then spun round and exploded. Damn the gun. "You're sick!" he said, charging toward him. They were standing too far apart.

Don regained his footing. "Is Charlie alive?"

"Will you come with me now?"

Despite the burns, Don's hands had curled into fists. "Is he?"

"Even if he survived the fire," Reylott said. "It doesn't mean he survived me."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: _C.Y.A., Eppes_

---1---

Reylott handcuffed him, hands front, leashed him at the waist with a rope. When Don got ahead, Rey jerked him back, demanded he maintain the pace, driving him over the carpet of vegetation and pine needles. Too slow, too fast, too far. Don wished he'd make up his mind. He asked questions; Rey ignored them, said when we're out farther we'll confer; your people have lost touch, they'll be getting antsy about your whereabouts, since they can't reach your brother either. He bragged that he'd nabbed Don's boots before he'd smoked him out, otherwise he would've slowed them down.

Don shut up to conserve strength and eke out an offensive, hanging on to Charlie's survival. Rey claimed he didn't need to squeeze Charlie and Don hoped that meant he'd tucked him out of the way unharmed. Rey wouldn't hesitate to use Charlie against him. Don weighed his options. Strategy, tactics, tricks of the psyche. Unfortunately, Armen Reylott knew what he knew. They'd trained together in Virginia, been comfortable as colleagues until crime and politics soured their friendship.

The leash tightened and Don stumbled, thoughts racing, tongue so dry it felt like a pink eraser. "Know where you are?" he finally said.

Rey halted him mid-step over a crooked sapling. "See that?" he said, excited. "Up there?"

"No." Don was exhausted. Reylott seemed paranoid. "How much further?"

A prominent outcropping preoccupied Rey, jutting out at the top of an incline to the west. Don deemed this sudden jitteriness a positive sign, a weakness. Maybe Rey was hallucinating--a useful insecurity, equally ominous.

"Go to ground," Reylott said, directing his captive to the base of a fat tree trunk. Don tolerated the break, afraid what Rey would do next. Some of what he'd contrived was coordinated, the remainder reckless. Option one. Get to know Reylott again, commune with his inner child until he develops enough empathy to let me go.

"Why a fire?" Don asked. "I might not have made it. The whole forest could've gone up."

"Calculated risk. Burned where it should. Arson's a cinch."

"Since when?" Don saw something zip by a few yards out--a furry rodent, going about its business beneath the lowest branches.

"My expertise?" Rey sat down on a rotting log, the leash casually wrapped on his hand. "You can take the boy out of the Bureau, but you can't take the Bureau out of the boy."

"The koi."

"My calling card," he said, stripping off his pack. "I enjoy fish, for dinner."

"Those were Charlie's. You didn't have to pick on my family."

"Yes I did. Your brother was a smart guy. He and I," Rey said, crossing his fingers, "...kindred spirits."

"How could you know that?"

"From everything. From when we met." Rey produced a canteen, took a drink. "We hit it off. He should've been my brother."

Don tried not to let on how thirsty he was. "If you're so fond of Charlie, why hurt him?"

"Because," he said. "I know what it does to you."

Reylott goaded him to react, baiting him. Don couldn't see it; Rey had met Charlie once or twice when he was younger yet Rey was convinced they'd bonded like siblings.

Don smoothed a knuckle over his hair. The tips were brittle and they filtered off like sawdust. Blisters had formed on his fingers and palms. Option two. Beg for my life until he thinks I'm hysterical, then strike. "For old times' sake, Rey, tell me what you want. But I can't fix your life." He crossed his wrists over his chest. "I just want to know where Charlie is."

"Aren't you honest, since you ruined it," Rey said. He put his canteen away. "You won't see your brother again."

"I didn't know what to do," Don said. "You know how it was, get tagged with suspicion those first four years and it's on the books, affects your career, proven or not. I was shaking in my brand new shoes. Harbert was pushing me to cut ties. Kept telling me, 'CYA, Eppes'."

"You were his protégé, I was his piss-wall."

"He was involved?" Don knew it wasn't true.

"He approved the evidence they said I falsified."

"Why rehash it?" Option three. Remain detached, impervious to emotional manipulation. Don't let him see me sweat, jump him when he's vulnerable.

"I didn't have a choice," Rey said. "I've lived like nobody while you do your hero impersonation. I figured I knew you, like my family."

"Your father?"

"He was ashamed of me. Couldn't show his face with the Bureau alumni--or he wouldn't, the old coward. Marlease dumped me."

"I didn't know."

"Case in point," Rey said. "Didn't hear a word from you."

Don tamed a wayward root with his foot. "I'm sorry."

"I traced your work, tried to see you a couple of times. Then I got...sick. Had to regroup. When I was good again, I sent letters. Those unsigned cards at Christmas last few seasons? There's a company in Iowa that reroutes them with a North Pole stamp."

"Your little joke?"

Reylott blabbed on, apparently not listening. He was on a roll, stuff he'd saved up for years. "My sister tried to join, tread in dad's footsteps. Mine left a gaping hole. Wouldn't accept her no matter what. Hole ate her up. If only you'd spoken up."

"Wouldn't have made any difference." Don compromised; he'd display enough respect to keep Rey interested and enough sympathy and detachment to frustrate him. And, God forgive, if he had to use his mother's death to humanize himself before his captor, he would.

"Harbert treated you like a son," Rey said. "Believed you. He didn't have time for me even before it hit the fan."

Don blew on his hands; they felt swollen. "I hated what was going on."

"Don't fake it."

"I'm not. Since mom died, there's a lot of things I regret."

"She had cancer."

Reylott had diligently been following his life. He was obsessed.

"Least she got to see you become an overrated suck-up." He spit near the log. "You don't deserve awards. You're a coward like my dad. It should've been me, my life. I slaved to get there. I have more talent, more brains, more guts, same as Charlie did."

Don said, "I'm not the same man. My mother's death was a wake-up call. She suffered and Charlie, well, he had a hard time. I gave up everything to come home."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Priority, Rey." Don's fingers skimmed the leash. "People are important. It's not all about the job."

"Hear that on TV?" Rey said. "You believed I was guilty, didn't you?"

"I didn't know."

Reylott jumped up and the leash went taunt, scraping Don's hands. In pain, he raised them out of the way before they could get caught again.

"Crap, I was right," Rey said. "I didn't have a snowball's chance. You conspired, you all conspired."

Don hadn't made progress; Rey's ideology possessed him.

"I should shoot you right now," he said, the gun to Don's head.

Option four, say a prayer. He ducked, arms up--so many things he'd never gotten around to.

Instead, Rey started laughing. "You used Charlie, to get easy credit for yourself. He did all the work, in addition to his academic responsibilities. Made you seem brilliant, didn't he? I'll bet he was no more than a passing initial in your reports. 'C. E., Consultant'. Not even a 'Doctor' in front of it."

"You're way off base," Don said. "Charlie consults with us because he wants to. He's compensated for his time."

"And you strolled away with the accolades." Rey closed up his pack. "Took advantage of his trust, same as mine."

"He's my brother. I'd never do that."

"I thought we were."

---2---

His captor droned on, enjoying the pity party, the one-sided conversation. Don reasoned that when he'd broken down at the fire, he'd broken too soon. Reylott had been too efficient--it hadn't satisfied him, didn't last long enough. To punish me, he'll go on pushing my buttons. This has to stop now, while I still have strength.

Reylott dropped his guard and the leash slackened. Don tugged, snapped it, and Rey's arm jerked towards him. In the same instant, he lunged, plowed into Rey, kneeing him in the groin. They toppled against the log and Don straddled him, cuffed hands laying hold of Reylott's gun hand and crushing it against the trunk. He wrenched Rey's pinky finger loose, yanked it backwards, trying to get him to release the weapon. Reylott protested with a primal yell but retained his hold. With his free hand, he grabbed Don around the neck.

Don choked. He dug his chin into chest, beating Rey's forearm while the bark chipped away, bent his finger until it seemed to dislocate. Rey was forced to let go. The gun tumbled, disappearing on the other side of the log. Don pushed away, kicking, and rolled off, scrambled over the log after the gun. Rey swooped in, jabbed a knee into Don's ribs until he retracted his limbs, wedging the gun beneath his body.

Rey trapped Don's shoulders in a vise and his hand stole under for the gun, grasping the barrel. With his legs, Don thrust into the soil and they wrestled in the leaves, smashing pinecones into the layered earth.

"Give me it," Reylott said, one fist clamped over Don's chest, the other on the gun's barrel. "You can't hurt me."

Don paid him no heed and they grappled, ended up on their flanks. He managed to worm his bound hands out, firmly secured on the gun's grip, and aimed it over his head and fired. Rey let go, repelled by the shot. Don acted, stuffing an elbow into Rey's chin, into an eye. Rey was dazed, shouted that he'd busted his eye socket. Don twisted out from under and sprung to his boots, clipped him on the temple with the grip.

Rey crumpled against the log. "I can't be hurt," he said, clutching his face. "Or you'll never find Charlie."

"He is alive, you shit. Liar!" Don strained to catch his breath. The smoke had left its damage. "Give me the key."

Rey refused, saying Don Eppes was a worse liar than he was.

He trained the .38 on the log, inches from Rey. Bark sailed into the air, sprinkling down in staccato beats.

Reylott dove, protected his head. "You're nuts," he yelled.

"Me?" Don said. "Give it."

Relenting, Rey tucked a hand into a front pocket.

"Slow, like a nice boy." Don gestured downwards. "Toss it here."

He did and Don retrieved it cautiously, then stepped backwards a few feet, careful of misstepping on uneven land. His hands hurt and he was frightened he'd fumble the gun before he could unlock the cuffs. While he struggled, Reylott hopped up, dug into a pocket and threw his own phone into the woods.

"Power's off," he said. "Dare you to find it." He seemed proud of his trick.

"Freeze!" Don said, releasing the cuffs. "Sit. Don't try anything anymore or I swear I'll kill you."

Rey obeyed. "Won't."

Don thought to cuff him, decided it was better to keep his distance. Reylott would interpret that as fear. So be it. With hands freed, he worked the rope, tangled around his waist, and untied it. Next, he dug into Reylott's backpack, glancing at the contents, an eye on the enemy. On one knee, he guzzled water and a food bar. He had no appetite, but his growling stomach required energy. Rey leaned on the log, a self-contained picture of monomania.

Don was dying to wring the smugness out of him, wondered if it was better to leave, take the supplies, rely on search and rescue teams to find Charlie, if they could. There was no guarantee. Reylott knew it. Many hikers had never been found, particularly in forests half the size of Rhode Island. Some were eventually found by accident months or years later, decaying at the bottom of cliffs, or washed up in the river after falling off precarious ledges. Others buried under rockslides, expiring abruptly or in increments. Bears, wildcats and plain old exposure had claimed their share as well.

If he sought aid, Charlie would be out here alone with Reylott, and what would Rey do then? Charlie must be out of his mind by now. There were no good choices. I'll feel Rey out, he concluded, push him up and down the mountainside, see if he'll give up the hiding place.

Or I'll beat it and the hell out of him.


	5. Chapter 5Threshold

**Chapter Five:** _Threshold_

---1---

"You couldn't have taken Charlie this far," Don said, the weapon prepared. Rey carried the backpack, dragging his feet. They'd searched for the cell phone, sort of. Rey didn't try very hard and Don had to keep an eye on him every moment.

"He fell a lot," Rey said, rustling a bush. "Not being able to use his hands. Cuts everywhere, shredded knees. Branches flinging out from every direction."

_He never lets up. He's twisting me around._ Don resisted, ordered him to slow down.

"Shoot me," he said, going on. "Charlie cooperated pretty much until the end." He glanced at Don.

_He's expecting me to crumble._

Rey continued. "The end being our destination. He panicked."

Don refused to buy his taunts.

"I had to put him down, fast."

"Can't be this far. You wouldn't have had time."

Reylott said, "These head wounds leak like oil." He touched his temple, where Don had belted him. "Charlie's did."

Don flared, blisters bursting under the hold and weight of the gun, arm raging. His boots seemed to have shrunken a size smaller. Rey was taking him on a wild goose chase._ Hang on, Charlie._ "Cut it out, I'm tired of your mouth," he said, and stood firm, discharged a round into the sky. "Where is he?"

Defiant, Rey trudged on and Don trained the gun exactly where he wanted it, popped another round.

Reylott swelled with anger, holding his left arm. "You haven't changed, Eppes," he said, "You're not who you say you are now or then. Only do what's good for Don," and he dumped the pack from his shoulders.

"You fool," Don shouted. "Get back here!"

Running off, Rey had passed through a pair of trees and tripped into a hole filled with decomposing leaves that had accumulated between them.

Don advanced and circled, floated the gun over Rey's head. The bullet had grazed him, tearing through his denim jacket. "Where is he?"

"Do it." He stretched out a leg. "I have nothing to lose."

"I do." With both hands, Don pressed the gun to Rey's skull, unhinged by the uncertainty of Charlie's fate. He overtaxed his voice, asking, "Why won't you tell me?" and began to cough, couldn't stifle it.

"Charlie's the chosen one." Reylott poked at his wound. "You never measured up. You had to be better at something."

Don repressed the last cough, shaking his head, and re-positioned the gun.

Rey's head tilted sideways with the touch. "The oldest is supposed to be the winner."

"That's right," Don said, prodding him with the barrel. "Whatever you say. Now tell me where he is."

"Come on, Eppes, you tell me something." He swept leaves aside with his boot. "The truth--Promise, I'll give you Charlie."

"What? What is it?"

"Is the FBI better than baseball?"

"Damn it." Don stepped back. "Where?"

Reylott said, "Answer me. He'll die without help, if it's not too late."

He wiped sweat from his eyelids. "Keep your promise or I swear I will waste your legs and leave you to rot."

"I'm rotten already. Well?"

Don coaxed his arms to stay straight, took a rasping breath before he replied. "No," he said. "It isn't."

"I thought so. Told you I like a good game," said Reylott, and he promptly rose. "He was right under your nose all the time, Donny." He slapped on a cold-blooded grin. "See that--up there?"

_The outcropping._

Reylott's expression went blank and he sneaked away brazenly, then sprinted off, zigzagging though the trees.

Don lowered the gun, and let him go.

---2---

Reylott had been playing him the whole time, applying ploys from the manual of mental warfare. Don cursed himself for his stupidity, hurrying to the location where he'd had the "conference" with Rey. Above was the outcrop. _Please be there._

Don sketched an alternate course, worried his opponent might have set traps or explosives-anything to make this harder for him, more fun for Rey. If he couldn't find Charlie in good time, he had the pack and would retreat, get help, and hope. There was no use letting Charlie bear the cross longer than he had to.

Rey had deteriorated. Back when, he'd been sociable, nice from outward appearances, never passed up a challenge. Don could never decide if he was an overachiever or an underachiever, both driven by feelings of inadequacy. At 19, Rey had saved a woman from drowning in a lake when the ice broke through, gloried in the attention he received afterward, missed it when it died down.

He had courage, but sometimes went to extremes, drinking excessively on occasion, foot hot on the pedal when he could get away with it. When women dumped him, it was always their fault. After showering them with attention, coming on strong, they'd have to tell him off to get rid of him. As an FBI colleague, he sometimes crossed the line with suspects or was patronizing with witnesses and victims. Yet he was savvy enough to know when to rein it in and behave.

Then, someone snitched and the Bureau heads decided to monitor him covertly, gathering information. Don was clued in, had to keep it secret. One of the toughest things he'd ever had to do. After three months, Rey suspected what was going on and pleaded with Don to speak up for him, put it in writing. Don said he would, but never did.

Rey was reassigned, and, five days later, caught with his hand in the classified cookie jar, making a dead drop. He had excuses, said he was following orders. The charges told the opposite: he'd allegedly taken bribes, tampered with evidence. Through it, he expected Don to stand by him. As the nails went in, Don made sure the distance between them expanded. Reylott blamed others, including Don, and was ultimately drummed out of the Bureau, disgraced, evading formal charges.

Don scrutinized his surroundings, watched for Reylott. It seemed like the trees had been frolicking about behind his back. Concentrate, Eppes, you can do it, he said aloud, resurrecting rusty tracking skills. This time a backtrack: comb the area, pick out footprints, broken twigs, smeared moss, squished leaves, flaked bark where they'd touched and other traces. He'd never traveled so fast. Not even on the job, except the day Charlie had wandered on to a crime scene and almost got picked off. Don put on the caution light after that. It was about communication: if you didn't warn your people, they couldn't effectively do their jobs.

From the opposite approach, the outcropping struck Don as a bulgier bulge, a different formation, and he gave it second and third looks before he came directly under it and ran into litter from the food bars in the underbrush. Above, young trees populated the hillside about one per ten square feet. With the gun in his waistband, he placed a foothold at the base, calling out Charlie's name before beginning the climb.

He undertook a diagonal path, tapping into a wellspring of stamina he didn't know he possessed. One goal was on his mind and for the time being, it suspended his pain. The outcrop was difficult to reach yet the wellspring pushed him upwards and he discovered it wasn't one boulder but several which overlapped. In the center, an opening large enough for a man. There was light within. Checking the vicinity, he called out then entered, scrunching to clear his head and pack. He called out again and his own voice came back to him. Dumping the pack at the threshold, he froze and listened. Faint drips stirred from inside and a breeze jostled the bushes behind him. His sight adjusted. The light, about twenty feet in, emanated from the ceiling.

To his left, pebbles skittered down the wall and he flinched, felt vulnerable, like he had when he'd found the koi in his car, as though he were the subject of a surveillance. Now who's paranoid. To the task, Don. He has to be here.

"Charlie!" Nothing. It wasn't the roomiest of caves, about a dozen feet wide, and he had to bow in places to pass through the initial ten feet. On the floor, gravel and broken stones had collected, clods of hardpan earth. Springwater seeped out of the walls and natural ledges formed their own indoor mini-outcroppings. Perhaps Charlie was behind one of those-but why so silent if he were?

Observing, he spied a dayhole above at the end of a vertical tunnel, several inches across, enough to allow illumination for another thirty feet. He turned, heard scratching like a spoon on concrete. Ahead, after scrunching again to get through, he discerned a larger mini-outcrop, taller than he was, sticking a third out into the cave, a segment of the wall. Mindful of stones underfoot, he headed for it, calling. He came round it--muted sunshine extending into the corner on its opposite side--and saw dangling bootlaces.

_He can't be._


	6. Chapter 6 Pitch Black

**Chapter Six:** _Pitch Black_

---1---

He sank to the ground. "Charlie. Charlie?" he said, feeling for a neck pulse. Faithful, familiar.

Don lifted his brother and embraced his upper body, supporting his head. He sat back, pulled him into a sitting position. Pressing him easily, he whispered, "I thought I'd lost you."

He held him for a long moment and listened, waiting for Charlie's breaths while he paused his own. He asked him to wake up, pulling back to see his face, make sure it was Charlie. It seemed necessary. When he released him, Don realized a blanket had been spread out on the floor and a partly empty water bottle lay beside it. He checked for injuries; there were no major ones--only facial scratches, torn scraped knees and shirt-rips. Don reeled, light-headed, a chill coursing through his shoulders. Too much at once.

Charlie wasn't free. Reylott had secured his right hand and ankle to the cave wall by using long-chained cuffs attached to metal, piton-like stakes, drilled or hammered in.

Don recovered and shook him lightly. "What did he do to you?" he said. "Wake up." He took Charlie's face in hand and ran fingertips over his hair. On the back, he had a knot the size of quarter. A black bandana had been tied loosely around his neck. Don removed it.

Backpack, first aid, keys. They were a few yards away, but he remained. He stared, thankful for Charlie's even breathing. _He'll be all right. I believe it. _Get to it, Eppes.

Before getting up, Don leaned over the blanket, wrapped the bandana over the cuff chains to protect his skin and gave each piton a pull. They were well pounded into the rock and wouldn't budge. Smarting hands stung under the pressure. With his knuckles, he soothed Charlie's forehead and got up, reusing the bandana as a bandage on his blistered right hand, and fetched the backpack, strap on an elbow. The wind had grown vigorous, sky gray.

"Rise and shine, buddy. I'm not carrying you." He put the pack beside them and rummaged through the contents, including a flashlight, trail mix, blanket, and, at the bottom, a tattered box of gauze, Band-Aids and antibiotic packets in a paper bag. No cuff keys. Don was concerned. The pack was incomplete, wasn't enough to support a man for longer than a day hike. Had Reylott stashed secondary supplies in the woods? Weapons?

He dressed his left hand with gauze, muscles weary, and bided his time against the mini-outcrop with Charlie. What could dad be thinking now? David? Larry and Amita? Had it made the headlines: "FBI Agent and Brother Missing in National Forest, Search Begins." Or was it too soon? It hadn't been twenty-four hours since he'd left a message for dad. Tonight, people would really be worrying. Sometimes it was a chore to get local authorities to act. Not in this case, not with the koi incident. Don counted on this, hoped a search craft was the next sound on the horizon. Better yet, a team of searchers and cops, flushing Reylott out of the area. As for the cabin fire: Alarms may or may not have gone off; it might not have been seen. Fire spotters were volunteers and they couldn't be everywhere.

Charlie lifted his left leg, folding it in. Don was ecstatic.

Without opening his eyes, Charlie yawned a hearty yawn, as though he were home. His free hand raised to his brow, covered it, and he inhaled slowly.

Don encouraged him, watched him suspend the inhalation and then, without exhaling, his lids cracked open, arm lowered to the side.

He breathed out, blinked. "Hello?" he said, as though doubting the sight. His eyes glistened.

"No no, it's over, it's over." Don clutched his brother's wrist. "Everything's all right. We're home-free."

Charlie reached out, right arm jerking back.

"Bad news," Don said. "You're glued to the wall."

"You okay?"

"In one piece. Take it easy."

Charlie raised his head, searched past the outcrop. "Where is he?"

"His name's Armen Reylott. Calm down, he's gone."

He relaxed back. "How long?"

"You were out? Don't know." Don looked at his watch. The dial had melted. "I'd say, two, three hours. Lost track."

"What happened?"

"Deep tale. One problem at a time. Can you sit?"

Charlie scooted sideways and did, weaving like a drunk.

"Whoa whoa," Don said, giving support.

Charlie's limbs stretched toward the rock and he tugged at the piton imprisoning his wrist. "I tried to get these out." He turned to Don. "It was pitch black."

"I know, it's been tough. He hit you?"

Charlie nodded, said after answering the call of nature he'd had his nose squished into a tree, threatened with death, rushed forward with a gun at his back, falling numerous times, asking questions of his captor, receiving warnings in return.

"At the bottom of the mountain," Charlie said. "He pulled down the blindfold and untied me, and I'd realized where I'd seen him. I felt like an idiot. He pointed the flashlight and told me to climb. There was some moonlight but I said I couldn't see. Too dangerous."

"You panicked?" Don asked, remembering what Reylott had said, the liar.

"I lost it," he said. "He hit me and backed off, said he didn't want to hurt me. I complied."

Once Reylott had Charlie locked up, he offered him bottled water, which he drank.

"He talked to me a while, it was bizarre," Charlie said. "He knew about us, said how unfortunate we never had time for chess. I told him I didn't understand. Then he left."

Don noticed Charlie had a tangle of spider webs stuck to his collar, woven through the tips of his hair. "Sorry you had to go through that."

"I didn't give up. I felt around and worked on the cuffs until my palms were sore." He was shaky and reached toward the back of his head. "I got drowsy, passed out."

"He drugged you," Don said, upset. "You should've known better than to drink."

"I was thirsty. It was mild, could've been worse."

"Almost a full day isn't mild." He picked a web off Charlie's collar. "Suppose it was poisoned?"

"Then why would he drag me all that way?"

"You know what criminals do to people. What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't," he said. "All...all I could see was you, alone at the cabin, and if he went back, or went after dad. If I cooperated--"

"You don't know this guy like I do."

"--maybe he would let me go," Charlie said.

"Dumb thing to do." Don rose to check for Reylott. "I'll be right back. Rest."

---2---

Their light was leaving and the twenty-percent chance of precipitation was now one hundred. They pooled their schemes and Charlie suggested Don leave him there. With Reylott at large, Don wouldn't hear of it, explaining that he suspected Rey had gone to refuel and could be lurking. The next item on the agenda segued to the pitons and cuffs, ruling out the use of bullets lest they cause a cave-in. In the end, they agreed the piton stakes would require less work.

This didn't bar Don from trying a belt buckle pin to fuss with the locks. The crude tool failed him. They tried chipping at the pitons with stones to loosen them, got worn-out. Next, Charlie threaded Don's belt through one of the pitons and pulled. It broke under the stress and they grabbed the ends, were unsuccessful.

"Leg power," Don said. Charlie agreed and they ripped off his overshirt, a long-sleeved button-down, to tie as a loop, lacing it through the eye of a piton. With Charlie seated forward, Don braced himself on the wall and stuck his foot into the loop. Because there was no way to get behind the contraption, he kept it angled away at forty-five degrees. He pounded until repetition did the trick, sending the piton out with a clang.

Charlie volunteered to do the ankle piton.

"I can do it," Don said. He was short of air.

"Even in this light I can see you're about to drop," Charlie said.

"I'm half-down, Charlie, not all yet."

"You're pale. Let me."

Don gave in and shifted aside. "I don't see how you're gonna' manage that."

Charlie had relooped the shirt in the second eye and tied it off. "No problem," he said and awkwardly braced against the wall. He pounded with his foot, holding the loop steady with his hands at the same forty-five degree angle. "This one's jammed," he said, after going at it for some time.

"It's too wonky with your left foot." Don kneeled facing Charlie, taking hold of the loop, hooked on his wrists. They applied steady tension and the piton let out a grating noise, then rocketed out of the wall into Don's ribs.

He rolled, moaning.

"Let me see." Charlie urged him to unroll. Don lay back and they examined the damage: a crimson bruise, no broken skin. "Glad it wasn't your eye." Charlie cradled Don's hand in his and removed the bandana. He turned it palm up and cringed. "How bad was the fire?" he asked, examining his brother's face.

Don recalled the experience, leaving out the gruesome details, emphasizing his stalker's determination.

"Reylott led you to believe I was dead?" Charlie said, rewrapping the hand.

"Yeah. He threatened to shoot me if I didn't go with him. I didn't care."

Charlie seemed confused. "Care about what?"

Don recalled the night, cot on fire, the phone's incessant ringing. "It's past, forget it."

"You considered letting him shoot you?" Charlie said. "Giving up?"

"It wasn't about 'considering' anything."

Charlie got up, bumped his head on a low spot of the ceiling. "What about dad?" he said, hand on the spot. "He needs you."

"Don't judge me, you weren't there." Don was taken aback by his attitude. _I thought I'd lost you._

He tucked the ankle cuff into his boot. "I want some air," he said, and headed for the entrance.

Don called after him, expecting a reply, didn't get one. He warned Charlie to stay clear of the opening then leaned back, flexed his fingers as far as the injuries would allow, curling his arm close, and tried to forget.

_I don't need this._


	7. Chapter 7 Instinct

**Chapter Seven:**_ Instinct_

---1---

A few feet in, safe from wind and rain, they shared blankets, steering clear of the dayhole, now a driphole. Rainwater had formed skinny, interlacing streams along the floor, flowing further into the cave. Just outside, keeping down, they'd found a patch of ground and sacrificed two rounds to cut the chain and remove the piton so that Charlie was left with six-inch chains on bracelets. They ate, awash in the flash of lightning, honing into the grumble of thunder as it gained momentum.

Staying awake was a challenge. Don would rise every few minutes, scan for Reylott; it kept him on his toes. Charlie was strangely the lucky one because he'd slept for hours, although he had a headache. They talked, but Don felt himself fading.

Charlie couldn't recall the man Don had known in his academy and early Bureau days. While Don had successfully toiled up the FBI hierarchy, Reylott had turned Don into his raison d'être. Bitterness had altered him, Don said, he's younger than me, but bearded, thinner, prematurely gray; I avoided Rey when he tried to contact me-he was a tainted man.

With his fingertips, Charlie traced tiny circles on his forehead. "You're right," he said. "It was dumb. I shouldn't have accepted the water. So was insisting the koi book was a coincidence." He folded a blanket over his legs. "This is my fault."

"You went on instinct, what you know," Don said.

"That what you did? When you considered--not going on?"

Don reflected a moment. "Instinct?" He shrugged. "Yeah, if it's instinct to want to stay with your brother."

"You don't blame me?"

"What? For dying?" Don kidded, gave him a tired smile. " 'Course not. Don't ever think it. The blame's on Reylott where it belongs."

Charlie approved with a single nod, tossing the blanket over Don, telling him to save his voice; it was painful to hear.

Don had something else to add. "I know dad needs me," he said. "He needs you, too."

"The point of no return," Charlie said. "...is where nobody wants to go. I might've done the same thing."

"If anything ever does happen to me, on the job, anywhere, I don't want you to give up."

Charlie said he'd try.

Before lying down, Don advised him to be on alert, on what they might expect, and gave him tips on using the gun. Charlie didn't argue. At dawn, they'd take flight.

---2---

There's nothing worse than waking up in an ex-girlfriend's house. Or with a roiling hangover. Or on a rigid cave floor in a beaten up body, your own. Don was grateful these things were at least not happening all at the same time. He touched his burned arm. Charlie had been busy, bandaging it with a shirt scrap. Hadn't felt a thing.

With the flashlight, Charlie surfaced from within the cave, boots damp. "How're you feeling?"

"I can't move." Don jiggled his arm, gently. "Thanks."

"You should be in a hospital."

"Call the ambulance. I'll drive myself."

"Haven't seen anything but rain." Charlie flicked off the flashlight. "I've been into the cave. It's quite extensive."

"Better to stay here." Don rose, his calves and shins aching. "Reylott knows this territory." He leaned out the opening. Cats and dogs had waned; thunder had passed. Below, the declivity ranged in grade from thirty to forty degrees, a mix of protruding rock formations and cloddy earth, with muddy run-offs spilling into the fifty foot clearing at the base. Beyond that were mature conifers, an increase in shrubbery and underbrush. Their descent would be slippery. Maybe we should wait.

"He could be in China by now," Don said. "He did tell me where you were."

Charlie peeked out. "Then let's bet on the most probable scenario, and get out of here."

Don affirmed and helped Charlie tuck the loose handcuff out of the way, tying it to his wrist with a strip of fabric. They gathered what they had, loading the pack on Charlie, the stronger. Don, the battered, had the .38.

Sprinkles greeted them when they snuck out. While he got his bearings, Don kept Charlie behind the threshold and scanned for movement, signs extraordinary. When satisfied, he led the way. The first section was tricky, required them to clamber over boulders without falling into a crack, or cracking their heads. They shimmied over like crabs, on hands and feet, and after conquering the outcropping, tackled soggy earth.

Charlie immediately skidded, upset by a mud pool that Don had missed. He slid a few feet and collided into Don, tilted sideways because of the pack.

Don was knocked to a ledge. "Careful," he said. Every movement taxed his burned arm and a string of curses were nearly jettisoned from his lips. Containing them, he planted a foot and picked himself up. "Watch where you're going."

"I was. Everything keeps shifting," he said, tugging his boots from the mud.

"All right?" Don said, offering a hand.

"Keep going, I'm fine."

Don worked toward the rocky spaces where it was merely wet, avoiding the topsoil which tended to give way. To do this, in spots, they had to hike back up the hills or horizontally, one leg traversing the higher slope, the other on the lower. When possible, he'd warn Charlie where not to veer off.

They came to a wide run-off, briskly flowing, which split around a tree ten feet below. They inspected it, realized they'd have to remain on this side or cross at some point. Don decided it'd be safer to travel downwards rather than risk being swept away, backtrack if necessary. Unfortunately, they would have to assume a steeper descent, which carried its own perils. Don looked back to the outcropping. They were down about twenty-five feet but it felt like a hundred.

The rain picked up and Don shuffled back and forth, clinging to a sapling, glided on his backside to get down a mushy area. He checked on Charlie. His clothes were muddy, rainwater dripping from his hair, strands pasted to his face.

A shot rang out, shrieking above the raindrops and the bellow of wind in the valley. Don recognized it and collared Charlie, shoved him down, protecting him. There was no cover; they were sitting ducks.

"Where's it from?" Charlie said, frantic.

Don grasped his wrist and hurried him back toward the cave. "Let's get out of here."

Four shots resounded, a few feet to the west.

"Move!" Don said, his voice hoarse, pushing Charlie ahead of him. Several rounds volleyed around them.

They'd labored ten feet when Don lost his footing, flopped to his chest. He regained control temporarily, then lost it and tumbled. Another round pierced the rocks. Charlie shouted for him and Don glimpsed his face, feeling as though he were descending in slow motion. Fifteen feet down, he plunged into craggy rock, striking the front of his head.

He blacked out for an instant, the sum of his aches vanishing. Fighting to stay conscious, he crunched up behind the crag. When he recovered his senses, Charlie was with him, repeating his name, begging him to rise and pick up his feet. After this, he heard nothing else.

Don swayed, blood washed by rain. "We have to go, we have to..."

Snatching his arm, Charlie hauled him away from the crag. They fled upwards, shots sounding intermittently around them. Their boots skidded and they changed direction several times, furiously seeking a quick retreat over disintegrating soil. Rain inundated Don's eyes; cold saturated his pores. Through it, a firm grasp was drawn across his back, keeping him going. Up. One foot in front of the other, sticking to the rocks.

oooooOOOOOOooooo


	8. Chapter 8 Eagle Eyes

**Chapter Eight:** _Eagle Eyes_

---1---

Don slumped along the outer wall, ears ringing. He thought he'd heard more gunfire.

Charlie came away from the entrance, shivering. "Oh, man. What do I do with it now?" He swiped the gun across his thigh. "Mud."

"My head's pounding," Don said. "I'm hit?"

"No no, I don't think so." Charlie brushed a strand off his face. "Please, get it together. Reylott's out there, I saw him."

Don felt his forehead. With the impaired sensation in his fingers, he detected only a slight notch. Outside, a bullet ricocheted off the rocks. He couldn't mistake its distinctive sound.

"We have to go," Charlie said, trying to get Don up. "We'll take the cave."

"He's maneuvering in for the kill." Don's mouth had become blunt with the fall; he didn't intend to say _kill_, scare Charlie witless. "You'll have to take him out first."

"What?--I won't do that. We'll hide." His voice was urgent. "Please, get up. There has to be an egress."

Don forced himself up. "We can take him."

"I don't want the gun." Charlie handed it over and twisted away, let out a sneeze.

Two more rounds reverberated and with both hands, Don pointed the gun toward the entrance. His vision doubled and he wavered, bumping the wall.

"Come on." Charlie reclaimed the gun. They hurried farther in, to the back of the cave. Don stumbled, needed assistance to walk, said things he knew had nothing to do with their predicament.

"This is as far as I came," Charlie said. "The water flows--cave could go through." They stood where the light reached its limit, having come by a broad rectangular crawlspace, scrambling into a roomy chamber. Don felt faint and Charlie propped him up, diving into the pack for the flashlight.

"You can..." Don focused; his brain had to obey. "...hold him off." He heard the clatter of stones and he and Charlie went silent, listening for Reylott.

Charlie stuffed the gun in the pack's Velcro pocket, told Don it was hard to carry him and it at the same time. He started forward, adding, "I aimed into the rain. I couldn't shoot him."

"Scare him then," he said, leaning. His legs were uncooperative--the fall had left him with a sore ankle and knee. "He could've picked us off anytime. Cat and mice."

"You're certain?"

"Nothing's certain," Don said. "Takes the thrill out of his game."

The cave floor was a masterpiece of asymmetry. Even with the flashlight, nowhere could they anticipate if they'd thump their heads or elbows or find one foot in a pit and another on a rise, throwing them into one another. Coming round a meandering curve, Charlie noted a circular keyhole and rested Don against the wall to investigate. He shined the lightbeam through and said, "Wow."

Don asked what but Charlie didn't talk, shuffling him to the keyhole and tipping him in headfirst. Don went to ground, gazing above as Charlie trailed him. Yards up, a skimpy patch of blue shone through a crevice, providing a pale shaft of light to an impressive cavern.

After Charlie entered, he turned off the beam and their ears pricked up. Don wondered if Reylott was there at all, if they weren't being herded like cattle, fools for thinking he was tailing them when he was someplace else.

But Charlie, obviously convinced after his abduction, said, How could he not be? He killed my koi, what's to stop him?

A thread trickled down Don's face and he dabbed a gauzed hand to it.

"More blood," Charlie said, and he stretched his shirt to Don's head. "No wonder you're dizzy." Don shooed him away.

They flattened against the walls. Cutting between them, a downpour of wet soil, needles and gravel gushed from the crevice, dusting their hair.

"Go," Don said. Branches and a shred of sky unveiled themselves in the crevice, no sign of Reylott. They faltered on, arriving at an oblong split at a smaller hollow at the end of the cavern. Charlie dumped the pack to check on it, told him he'd be right back.

"Charlie, no," he said, but he was through the split. Kids. He heard a splash of water, called out. Charlie yelled he was okay and Don waited, reflected light streaming in from the adjacent cavern.

Charlie poked his head in. "Come on," he said, and Don eased up along the crags and hobbled to the split, passed the pack and entered-lowered into three feet of cold water.

They waded, Charlie assuring him that it didn't get any deeper than this, but he hadn't actually reached the pool's boundary.

Traveling thirty feet, Don sensed his legs getting numb and insisted they turn around, this was a bust. Charlie protested, positive he'd seen light. The ceiling had gotten lower and Don's claustrophobia, which he'd never known he had, clicked in.

"I feel weird," Don said.

"You'll be all right." Charlie hurried. "See the light?"

Don wasn't up to it-details and variations in dimness eluded him. "Let's go back."

"Trust me, it's there."

Don, doubting his own perception, chose to believe him and twenty feet later the pool got shallower until a bumpy incline led them into a dry chamber. Resting, they sipped canteen water, rationing it. Charlie--go on ahead by yourself, he said, to your light, my leg is tingling.

"Circulation's returning. Good," Charlie said. "If he's on our heels, he would've been here, right?'

"We're guessing."

Charlie took his arm. "We go together."

Don relented. The harsh separation from his brother was vivid; reliving it would be unbearable.

The next section of the corridor would require full cooperation from their nerves, and Don was on his last one. The tunnel narrowed to about three foot wide by five, varying from that to who knows what as they progressed. Charlie loaded on his pack, counting on the light, the glow, he said, can't be over ten meters away.

Don was not encouraged. The pathway and walls were rocky, dotted with cavities and gaps, lumps and nodes. His elbow was slung over Charlie and when the passage shrunk, he would sit and shimmy under the low ceiling or between the narrowed walls first, with Charlie courageously holding the beam steady and following after, forcing the pack to pop through behind him.

An outline attracted Don's peripheral vision and he absorbed the glow with his ailing sight. Indeed, Charlie's blackberry eyes were eagle eyes. The way widened, the ground almost smooth. Side by side, they'd arrived at the end, gone through the cave. He viewed a man-sized gap at the base of a rocky declivity, a short walk. At the bottom, on his knees, with Don warning him to be careful, Charlie stuck his head out a bit. Don thought they'd both cry--he saw evergreen.

The gap exited into a densely bordered narrow zone, walled in on both sides by lofty rock walls, and above, an overhang awash with a graceful run-off, splashing to the side near the cave. It was adequate protection from anyone on higher ground as long as one hugged the rock wall. Farther out, to the right, the east face met a ravine, presumably a drop-off of unknown height. Inclement weather still threatened but the rain had tapered off, leaving a mosaic blue and charcoal sky.

Don said, "Reylott?" and crowded the gap.

"Hard to tell."

"If he didn't want to be seen-" Don began.

"He wouldn't be," Charlie finished.

"Let's get out of here."

"I'm with you," he said, and he helped Don to the gap, unloading the pack.

Don asked him to wait. "The gun," he said. "My hands have had it--I can try."

Charlie stared at the Velcro pocket. "I'll keep it. You're in no shape." He ripped the flap open. "I'll cover you this time."

"We're even, Charlie. This isn't a competition."

"It is to Reylott. And I don't want him to win." He steadied himself at the edge and wriggled out. From the gap, Don watched him recoil--surprised when sunlight was revealed by fast-moving clouds.

A clacking racket arose, demanded their attention. Charlie dashed into the zone, shouting and waving his arms, gun in hand. A helicopter soared through the valley.

"Wait!" Don wanted out--his brother was in the open with a nut case on the prowl. He wiggled out face down and briefly hung, crimson ribs in pain. Charlie, engrossed with the challenge of catching the copter's attention, was yelling at the apex of his lungs, his back to the gap. Drawing his body out a little, Don halted to unhook his snagged shirt. His foot had sunken into a puddle when he saw Reylott leap out from overhead. Charlie was silenced, knocked to the ground with a thud.

Don hustled and ran towards them, a frustrating limp in his gait. Charlie fought, entwined with Reylott, swinging out near the drop-off. By the time Don came upon them, they'd plunged off the muddied edge.

Down on his side, Don propped on an elbow and peered over, watched them scuffle and tumble together halfway, then separate. Most of Charlie disappeared into trees and shrubbery further below while Rey saved himself, coming to a standstill. Taking a foothold, he ascended the slope, carrying another pistol in a holster at the small of his back.

Don squinted. Charlie's foot was visible but he retreated from the edge, out of sight, hastily searching for the .38. It had probably gone down with Charlie. He headed towards the gap, knowing he had to abandon his brother now in order to save him later. The helicopter had steered into the south, apparently without identifying them.

The injured ankle hampered Don and he succumbed on the run, falling into mud. He attempted to rise and halfway up Reylott caught and hoisted him up, wound an elbow around his neck, poised a knife at his throat.

Don transferred weight to his good side and noted Rey had a splint on his finger. He tugged at Rey's forearm and calmed himself, hands aching if he grasped too hard. The blade skimmed his flesh. _Don't lose control._

"Confess," Reylott said. "Good for the soul."

Don shuddered; sparks whizzed across his field of vision. "Get off me you son-of-a-bitch," he said. "It wasn't me." _Charlie, run if you can._

"Speak up, I can't hear you." Rey tightened his grasp. "They were on me for months. Confess!"

He cleared his throat; it was no help. "I thought you wouldn't harm Charlie."

"He's out of my way." Rey flattened the knife against his skin. "Confess, snitch."

Don squirmed. "And if he's hurt?"

"Maybe he broke his neck. Bothers you, huh?" He angled the tip near Don's artery.

"Kindred spirits," he said. "He's not much younger than you." His head wilted and Rey roused him with a jerk.

"Unlike you, Eppes, he treated me like an equal. We would've played chess."

"He respected you," Don said. "As my friend."

"You had nothing to do with it."

Don was yanked to the rock wall, spine banged on the jagged face. The blade warmed on his throat. "You'd never win," he said, his words muting in and out.

"Watch it. Or I'll find him." Reylott's breath was stale. "Admit your crime."

"I could," Don said. "But it wouldn't be true." He lapsed into a spurt of coughing. "You're a big fan of the truth."

"Harbert said you were in on it."

A rock edge pricked his neck. "He led you on, let you dig your own grave."

Reylott said, "I don't believe you."

"You think I was so naïve I'd get dragged in? I don't play teacher's pet to keep my nose clean, Rey. I don't have to snitch."

"Liar." Reylott slammed him on the rock. "Confess or I'll slice."

"You're the same man..." Don said, stalling, "who saved a drowning lady?"

Reylott's eyes deadened and he seethed, sent a blow into Don's belly. He doubled over and collapsed as the sparks revisited him, floating by.

Sweeping the knife through the air, Rey started toward the drop-off. "Where's that brother of yours?"

Don supported himself on the rock face. "No. Stay away." Rey ignored him, flicking the blade downward in his grip.

"All right." Don spoke as loudly as he could muster. "It was me. I snitched, I did it."

Rey returned, crouched and grabbed him by the shirt. "Say it again."

His vision blurred. "You heard me."

He waved the knife between them. "On the count of three," he said, shifting it up into his face. "Or you're crowbait. One..."

Don pressed his head to the rock while Rey balanced the knife on the bridge of his nose, the blade across his line of sight. _I'm sorry, Charlie_. He shut an eye. "You..." he said, barely audible. "have nothing..."

"Two."

His fists were on Rey's chest. "in common..."

"Three."

"...with Charlie." _I'm sorry, dad._

Reylott suddenly tipped the blade and nudged it against Don's cheekbone, looking up--the helicopter had returned, circling the mountain, nearer this time. Don seized the opportunity; it wasn't over yet. He rallied into action, shoved the knife away and got up, hauled out a punch, landing it on Rey's jaw. Reylott was jarred, repaid Don likewise with a firm blow of his own, tossing a left cross. He brandished the blade at Don's chest, seemingly determined to finish him off.

Don kicked with his good leg, held him back. With deliberate slaps, he aggravated Rey's bullet wound, thinking he could get to Rey's pistol, when his injured leg gave way and they both sprawled into mud. Jabbing at the splint, Don glimpsed the knife as it dropped into a puddle. Rey stretched toward his holster and Don sagged, labored to catch a full breath, the flavor of smoke lingering on his tongue.

Rey searched around them. "Where is it?"

"Charlie," Don said, hushed. His brother had materialized, wobbly and disheveled, snagging Rey's weapon literally from behind his back.

The knife lay near Reylott; Don saw him glance towards it and feverishly signaled to Charlie, pointing. "Get..." he said, words cut, sapped by the struggle.

Rey won and swiftly plucked the knife away. "Dr. Eppes, sir, you won't do it," he said. "You're not the type."

"Toss it," Charlie ordered, then pleaded with him: "Just go, please, that's enough."

"Know how to work that thing?" Rey said, inching closer to Don.

"Stop there!" He quick-stepped towards them. "I'll do it, I swear." The gun clicked.

Rey raised the blade and Charlie shouted a threat, discharged seven rounds into the overhanging rock. It created a minor avalanche; shards and stones broke away, shattered and showering on the men below. Altering its course, a slice of the run-off rapidly sloshed into the new channel and over the gap.

Crawling first and fast, Don shied from the rock, staggered out into the zone. Charlie hastened to him, got him to safety, their feet slipping in the shallow flood. Stooping low, away from the shards, Reylott unexpectedly straightened tall. Don watched from the ground, rivulets splitting around him, terrified, while Rey deftly flung the knife in Charlie's direction.

Don motioned and Charlie engaged a timely turn, dove aside and splashed into mud, the knife skirting the top of his shoulder. Rey pounced, attacking in a fit.

Without a second of protest, Charlie fired.

ooooOOOOOoooo


	9. Chapter 9 Peace of Mind

**Chapter Nine:** _Peace of Mind_

---1---

One night in a hospital was all about Don could stand, but he spent two under observation. As far as he was concerned, what they observed was his profound annoyance with being regularly awakened when he was happily zonked out like a rummed-up sailor ninety percent of the time. The rest of the time he spent refueling—and calling his family. Yeah, not necessarily necessary, but he felt better when he did, if he didn't overuse the voice.

Charlie lucked out, had scrapes, sprained wrist and a minor cut on his shoulder, but didn't stay. He wanted to, for Don, then reality set in and he accepted their father's venerable wisdom which foretold that he would have to be carted away if he didn't get some rest. And you need a shower, Alan said.

Don bid him a scratchy Hasta la Vista and subsequently joined him for the three R's: rest, relaxation, and recovery, with Dad hanging about the house making sure they had what they needed and didn't go missing again. The first time was harrowing enough.

When Alan couldn't reach his sons, he'd enlisted David's help, leaving San Diego, and together they'd gotten things moving. From the air, authorities had discovered the burned-out cabin and Alan said he'd almost had a heart attack believing they'd been in it. Rain slowed the investigation but the preliminary report had been good: Don and Charlie weren't there. Alan's hope had been restored. It happened in a blur, he said, and David kept me sane.

Poor Dad, thought Don, he'll be recovering from this for months, like Charlie and me. In addition, after their rescue, Alan had fended off reporters who'd wanted interviews. They'd declined.

After Reylott, Charlie had retrieved the backpack, going through the ribbon of water to enter the cave, escorting his brother away from the mud and rain to a drier area under the trees, past the zone. There they waited for aid, huddled away from the run-off, hungry and frayed. Don had lain in a half-sleep, dazed but aware, opening his eyes occasionally to changing patterns of clouds through the branches as Charlie stood guard and vigil in one. Eventually, the helicopter returned and Charlie jumped to be seen. Searchers spotted them, arrived four hours later. It was a bit of a challenge to figure out how best to get to them especially through intermittent rainfall. Don had simply been relieved to know they were out there, trying.

The airlift alone was an unforgettable experience. Don breathed oxygen while Charlie sat silently over him the whole way, face streaked with dirt and sweat, fiddling with the handcuff which had come untied. It was gratefully discarded at the hospital.There, Don had opened his exhausted eyes not to another stranger's face but to his father's—drained and grave.

And although Dad had seemed frail, his words had been sturdy, telling Don he was going to be fine, that Charlie was fine, that he'd be waiting nearby while the doctors finished checking them over.

_Fine_—what a common word to toss around in such an uncommon situation. At that moment, he'd wondered whether Alan himself would be fine. Don's main desire had been to curl up and push everyone away, insist the strangers quit asking questions, quit touching him where it hurt because he couldn't say "fine" until they let him be. They didn't know half of what he and Charlie had endured.

Once Don had settled into a hospital room, he'd heard his dad in the distance—it sounded as if he were in the distance—saying he was going to drive Charlie home and would be back tomorrow morning, bright and early.

I hope you don't mind, Alan had said, you'll probably sleep all night, they say you're doing good.

Don had mumbled back that word, "Fine", and didn't worry, didn't notice much until Alan returned, not bright and early as he'd promised, but the same night after David and Larry had alternately offered to stay with Charlie at the house in case he needed anything.

Alan's emotions had spilled out: Thank God they found you, he'd said; Donny—you boys, for a while there I was sure it was the end. I almost went out there to look for you myself…they wouldn't let me, told me when the weather cleared up.

Don had nodded, lifted his hand in acknowledgement, whispered that it would take a lot more than a madman to take out an Eppes. _Damn, we almost didn't make it. Charlie pulled off a hell of a job._

Recalling the aftermath, he realized Charlie had been operating on overload yet had bravely held himself together, reassuring Don that everything would be all right. He'd sat near him, made sure he was warm, blocked the wind and tucked the blanket under his limbs so it wouldn't fly away. At the cave site and afterwards, he'd taken on the strain of answering the rescuers' questions for both of them. Don was impressed Charlie had been able to keep a clear head despite everything that had happened. It wasn't until he'd spoken with Charlie by phone the next day that he'd known his brother was more distressed than he was letting on, told his father to keep an eye on him.

They'd begun to fill in the blanks. In the woods, investigators discovered a rifle above the cave, no stash. Reylott's father had recently committed suicide, one possible catalyst in the desire to satiate his obsession. He'd spent time in a hospital under psychiatric care after attacking a man he thought was stealing his car and had worked sporadically as a security guard.

From the beginning, Don had pinned his suspicions on a criminal, not a former friend. He'd relearned a lesson about gauging possibilities, however unlikely. He could never afford to discount clues in his line of business—although hindsight was unmercifully twenty-twenty.

Was the FBI better than baseball? Well, the freedom to enjoy baseball might not be there without the FBI. And maybe it was best not to compare apples and oranges like Reylott had.

Don's feet had blisters and his lungs were healing, up to capacity, almost. His hands had taken the brunt of his ordeal. The concussion and bruises were piddling compared to hardly being able to feed yourself and perform other necessities without discomfort. Writing was painful and a return to work would be at least two weeks off, for Charlie a week, depending on how he felt, how his spirit coped.

Adjustments would take time for Don as well. He thought he'd be able to put it away, be Mr. Cool and not go "there", to those feelings that were just feelings—they couldn't hurt him, but how they did. Nightmares invaded, anger warped his sleep. Pills helped, denial didn't. Talking to Dad, good. As much as he cared to confide. As much as he needed to, no farther.

Charlie dealt with it similarly, perhaps keeping his emotions private longer than Don, but revealing more when he was ready to, not quite everything. He talked in his sleep, then went silent as though he'd awakened and reassured himself of where he was. Don knew one thing: he would walk Charlie through it because what he'd had to do would continue to haunt him until all was accounted for, and probably a long time after that, too.

After coming home from the hospital, Don had asked Charlie what he'd intended to do when he'd fired into the mountain. He answered that it was impulse, an act of desperation, and he had no idea what would happen, hadn't expected the rock face to collapse, thought the rounds would scare off Reylott. If nothing, emptying the pistol so that Rey couldn't use it against them seemed an appropriate move. But he'd never gotten that far.

People visited, popping in throughout the day, some calling first, some not. Authorities had follow-up questions. Sometimes Don was up to it, sometimes he demanded quiet. Same with Charlie. It was impossible to explain how it felt to lose your brother, then get him back, then lose him again, how helpless you could feel about preserving both your lives, how giving up became the enemy, instead of the enemy himself.

---2---

Don's second evening at the house, Charlie came to the guestroom.

"Another nightmare?" Don said. He'd been watching TV in bed.

He denied it, hovered at the doorway. "Your hands?"

Don flipped them front to back. "Blisters are peeling, some of them. Skin feels tight here and there." By remote, he turned down the set.

Scabs dotted Charlie's face and arms. "I'm sure," he said, seriously, still at the doorway, "…it wasn't a lizard."

The reference escaped Don.

"That we buried." He sneezed, sleeve at his mouth. "When I was four. It was a turtle."

Don tried to remember. The memories were muddled. "I'll take your word for it," he said. "How's the cold?"

"At maximum velocity." Charlie wandered in, studying photographs he likely hadn't noticed for years.

Sitting up, Don eased his feet to the floor, bored with resting. "You holding up?"

"Can't sleep," he said, sniffling.

"We'll get in the swing of it—soon. Try a pill."

A photo of their grandmother caught Charlie's attention. He picked it up. "I don't like pills."

"Me either. But we don't have to make it any harder on ourselves than we have to."

Charlie replaced the photo. "Think he's dead?"

"We won't know for sure 'til they find something," Don said. Reylott had fled into the woods after Charlie shot him point-blank in the chest. A blood trail remained, dwindling out. Everyone speculated, wondered if he'd had help.

Charlie was reticent, so Don blurted it out: "What's up?"

"I want him dead," he said. "But I don't."

"Because you think it would make you a bad person."

"I guess that's true, if I did want it." Charlie picked up another photo, this one of their parents.

"Charlie not bad," Don said, teasing a bit. "You did what you had to do. Like me, when Reylott broke the rules."

"You never informed on him, did you?"

"My sin was one of omission, if anything." Don got up, flexed the injured arm. In the best of spots, it resembled a sunburn. In the worst, shriveled figs.

Charlie dusted a photo face with his thumb, set it down. "What if he's alive?"

"I know, I know. And he tries something again," Don said. "I don't think he made it. That's my call."

"Mine too." He sneezed again.

"Bless you. So what was on the back of his shirt?"

A bandage shielded Charlie's left wrist. " '_Don't tell, I really love koi_'."

"You're kidding?"

"Yes, I am," Charlie said, but he didn't break a smile or laugh. "Honestly, it read, '_Don't tell, I cheat at chess_'."

"Whatever I can do to help, I'm gonna' do," Don said. "We'll get to the bottom of this."

"Dad says you're going home tomorrow."

"Think so. I can manage." He shut off the TV. "Okay with you?"

Charlie massaged his sprain, testing it with little twists. "Don," he said. "I killed somebody."

Reylott was gone, Don realized; yet there he was, dominating the entire room. "Don't think of it that way. It was him or us."

"Feels awful. Makes me sick inside."

"I don't know what to tell you, there's no easy way. Gotta' make up your mind you did the right thing, stop torturing yourself." Don sat, feeling lazy,pain in his leg."Hey, you saved my life."

Charlie had returned to the photos. He inhaled a stuffed-up breath, turned to him.

"I'll stay longer," Don said. "Give yourself time."

He seemed to collect his will, features less grim. "Thanks. It's no game, is it?"

Don reclined on the headboard. "We only win in baseball."

The floor in the hallway creaked and their father stuck his head in the doorway. "I've got a project," he said, creeping in. "Charlie, I know how you feel, but I think it's important to get back on your feet, well, not back on your feet, but, back on your peace of mind. So, I called a company to get the pond cleaned. They're going to restock it."

"Good move, Dad," Don said, and paused, expecting Charlie to say something. Alan waited, looking apprehensive.

"I see." From the bedside, Charlie grabbed a tissue, took a seat at the footboard. "I've kind of missed feeding them."

"Worrying about pH balance?" Don asked.

Charlie said, "Part of the job," and blew his nose.

"And the joy." Alan leaned on the entry. "They're for all of us."

Don agreed. "I could use some peace of mind."

"Should we think about an alarm?" Charlie stretched across the bed. "Don?"

"What, a fish alarm?" Alan said.

Don felt like laughing but the bruises objected, so he squelched it. "Not a bad idea, Charlie." He favored his aching side, adjusting a pillow. "They can always count on you to watch out for them," he said. "Just like I did."

_the end_


End file.
